Chapter XIV: Don't Dream it's Over

Chapter Fourteen: Don't Dream It's Over

The sun rose steeply over Bone Harbor around 10 am, warming the third graders playing Kickball at recess at Bone Harbor Elementary, and interrupting my perfectly good dream about watching Ray Knight flail at an outside curveball. I rolled over to face the wall and, clutching Darcy's sock, tried to recapture the celebration at Kenmore Square after the Sox won Game Six. Everyone kept patting me on the back, saying, “Way to go, Oggy! We won! We won!”

I woke up again around noon and thought I was crying tears of joy, but soon learned Twain was licking my face. I threw him off before having my way with Darcy's sock for fifteen or twenty delicious minutes. You'd think an old sport sock wouldn't have much jazz left in it, but that thing knows just what turns me on. It's like we were made for each other. After, I lay in bed for an hour waiting for Dwight Evans to jump off my wall and lead me to Shea Stadium to take our championship banner back. Maybe Yaz could come out of retirement and play first base for Game Six. Was that impossible? I didn't think so as I drifted back to sleep. Note: 8 hours of dream time is my absolute bare minimum, or else I start acting weird. I was still owed three hours of pillow talk, and I meant to have them. You know, I met a wise old hobo hitchhiking through Las Vegas. He said you can't save up sleep time for when you die. There aren't any ribbons for who needs the most sleep. Grab it while you can, was his M.O.

The phone rang at one o'clock when Cristos inconsiderately called to remind me about the JV basketball game tonight at BHHS. The answering machine relayed the message to me.

“Oggy! Get up! Get up Oggy. Come on. Quit spanking your monkey and pick the phone up. Oggy? Bitch? Just call me at home. Game starts at seven. I heard your mom'll be there so maybe I can get a piece of her Smurf in the locker room. Ha!”

Cristo had a better chance of playing Guard for the Boston Celtics than he had of getting me to go to a JV Basketball game at BHHS. Didn't he know some people were still sleeping? I played with Darcy's sock for a minute, rubbing it over my chest, but gave up after I remembered meeting Bonigan in the night. The memory of Bonigan's evil grin fouled my efforts to recreate the slippery texture of spandex over Darcy's toned legs. Damn! So, I pulled the tissues out of my nostrils and pushed Twain--he was back--off my bed. He fell to the hard floor with the confused look of a drunkard before grooming his fur. My eyes were red from my allergies, my throat raw from Vance's second hand smoke, and my clothes stank like a Yoken's ashtray. I rolled out of bed and crept to the window, looking out as I had for a decade at the unchanging neighborhood.

The sky was again royal blue with pipe puff clouds passing like cattle and, with low humidity, as cold as an ice chest. The Wraiths naturally hid in the shadows, so I was safe to ride my bike to Break Island. Seize the Day, that's my motto. I tucked Darcy's sock under my pillow, put my shoes on and wandered in the direction of the bathroom. Sorry for boring you; I'm sure your mornings aren't much different.

Deciding to change my strategy, I paused the Game Six tape at the 0-2 pitch to Ray Knight. Since the Mets hadn't scored yet and were still vulnerable, this made the most sense. Kevin Mitchell's cheap hit was meaningless, and the wild pitch to Wilson came when the momentum had shifted to the Mets. The play in the middle, Knight's 0-2 RBI single, was like the Death Star exhaust portal that the Federation focused all their efforts on in Star Wars. I had found the weakness. Now I needed to devise a plan, sparing nothing, to win game six.

I pressed play and watched as the game continued after Schiraldi proved himself completely useless as a hitter. First, he gives up the tying run in the eighth inning, then he gets slapped around like a AAA Pawtucket pitcher in the ninth, then he strikes out on three pitches without even coming close to the ball. Now, after a disastrous three innings, he had the fate of New England in his hands. What McNamara was thinking remains as mysterious as his earlier decision to remove Roger Clemens.

I found a scrap of paper underneath the couch and a pencil stub and wrote:

Dear Lacy. I should've written more but am involved in matters of great importance. The hemorrhoids are better in case you are wondering. How are you? I thought about calling you but my father has revoked my phone privileges after I called Ray Knight. It wasn't even the right Ray Knight, just some bum in Manhattan who had the same name. I told him that I needed his help. That I if he would simply let me strike him out on a curveball in the dirt then the Red Sox would win the Series. Heated words were exchanged and I chalked it up to another good try.

it is probably better that I couldn't call. I know you tried to cure me. But I have had a set back since I returned from UCONN. I am memory rich but cash poor.

I thought things would improve this time but they appear to be getting worse. Knight keeps poking a single to center field. Stanley keeps throwing a wild pitch. I've tried everything to change the result, but something always gets in the way. It isn't right. Maybe you could come up here and help me. Or maybe I could visit you and Piper again at UCONN. I know you have a vacation soon. I'd like to see you again and show you the landmarks in Bone Harbor like the Whiffle Ball courts where me and Gordy Clutcher used to play. He was the best player in town and I beat him.

all this is just a long way of asking your opinion on the matter of leaving Calvin Schiraldi in to hit in the top of the tenth. I mentioned this the last time I saw you and I detected some interest. I think Baylor should have pinch hit and then Stanley could come out and pitch in the bottom of the inning. I believe Stanley would have gotten the job done. Anyway, if Schiraldi had delivered a miraculous base hit, he never would've run for himself. See? No matter what, he was going to come out. Right? He couldn't bat and he couldn't run and he wasn't pitching well, so he should have been replaced. The strategy was there but McNamara was unconventional. For that I paid. But I'm so close, Lace. I'm very close to making a breakthrough. Maybe your advice would be the piece to solve the puzzle. Please respond.

I read the letter with distaste and decided nothing could possibly benefit me if I sent it. Lacy would never respond, or, if she did, she wouldn't answer my question. She didn't respect my quest. Few did. I wondered if I should leave in the part about my hemorrhoids? It was a touchy subject, to say the least, and you know how some girls get. I tried to cross it out but tore the paper in half. Distractions like this were always preventing me from concentrating on the game. I angrily stuffed the paper back under the couch and resumed watching the game.

After C.S. whiffed like a pathetic joke, Boggs stroked a perfect double through the alley in left center. Then Marty Barrett, continuing an incredibly clutch playoff performance, followed up with a 3-2 base hit to center field that scored Boggs. Now the Sox were ahead by an insurmountable two runs. They were going to win. Evans slapped Boggs in the head, “Yeah! Yeah! Lets Go!” The cheers from the Sox dugout were the only sounds in the suddenly dead Shea Stadium; it was even more deathly silent than the Jerry Lewis theater during Jaws 3-D. Even Mets fans knew this second run was a disaster.

Barrett stood on second base after Dykstra had thrown the ball over everyone in a failed attempt to throw Boggs out at the plate. Even though Don Baylor was still available, Buckner staggered up to the plate. With the count 1-1, Billy B. got pegged on the hip. He smiled as if to say, “That was the one place on my body that didn't hurt yet.” He also smiled because the Sox were winning 5-3. The Mets only had three outs to score at least two runs. This was enough to make any Sox fan smile. If Calvin Schiraldi could hold the Mets off, then the Sox would win the World Series for the first time in 68 years. Maybe Buckner had his own reasons for smiling as he hobbled down to first base with the gait of a war casualty, but that wasn't my concern. My concern was that no manager on earth would want Buckner either running the bases or playing first base this late in the game, long after the pain killers had worn off, and after he had just been hit in the leg with a pitch. But McNamara stood silently in the dugout, one of the few people in the park who didn't look like he believed the Sox were going to win the game. This is ironic because McNamara was one of the few people in the park with any control over whether the Sox won it or not. This was just one of the many points I had raised in my conversations with Cristo. First, why was Buckner allowed to hit. Second, why was he allowed to run. Third, why was he allowed to play defense?

I continued to watch as Rice swatted a sharp drive to right field for the final out of the inning. Buckner was probably just taking his first arthritic steps away from first base while Barrett was rounding third.

“Why leave him in, Twain? Why? You could have kept your name if they had won. Remember when I called you Dewey? Come here, Dewey. Come on. Here.”

Twain blinked his eyes and prowled into the kitchen.

“You'll get it back when they win,” I called after him. “I will return your name to you. Watch.”

As the commercial break was about to begin, I heard announcer Vin Scully say, “If Howard Johnson is good enough to swing, how come he wasn't...”

Judging by the volume of Scully's voice, I knew this cropped statement was never meant to be broadcast. I hadn't noticed his words before since I usually fast forwarded through the middle inning commercials. I rewound the tape and listened to it again.

“If Howard Johnson is good enough to swing, how come he wasn't...”

Scully definitely thought the commercial break had started and his microphone was off, his question addressed to an unknown person in the broadcast booth, but something about the urgency of it brought me to my senses. Scully was referring to an earlier Mets mistake that I tended to ignore. But could it help me solve my own riddles? Both Scully and I knew one fact: In the bottom of the ninth inning the Mets should have won the game. This can not be disputed.

In the bottom of the 9^th inning, Ray Knight led off against Schiraldi. Schiraldi got squeezed by ump Dale Ford--Damn him!--as two close strikes were called balls. What did Dale Ford care? It was just my life he was toying with. This favoritism forced Schiraldi to find more of the plate with strike two, but the pussy Knight was watching all the way and took a walk as a gift from ump-cum-Mets fan, Dale Ford. Even if the umpire blows three or four pitch calls, a fan's nightmare is a walk to lead off an inning, and when it comes in the bottom of the ninth inning of World Series game six and the game is tied, then--between you, me, and the light bulb--it makes one question one's faith in God. Guess how the Mets started their two-run fifth inning? Lead off walk to Strawberry.

In the 9^th inning, Mookie Wilson was then asked to sacrifice bunt to get Knight into scoring position. A sacrifice bunt in this situation, game tied 3-3, bottom of the 9^th inning, makes 100% perfect baseball sense. Sox pitcher Roger Clemens had been asked to do this in the 2^nd inning to advance Spike Owen, and struck out. Clemens had been asked to advance Owen again in the 4^th inning, and popped out to Gary Carter, the Mets catcher. Then Clemens was asked to advance Owen again in the 6^th inning. This time he got the ball in play but it was so poorly placed that Owen was thrown out at second base. Three chances to get Spike Owen into scoring position, and Clemens failed all three times. Note: An American League pitcher is not expected to swing for a single. The best a manager can hope for is a chance to have the pitcher in a position to sacrifice bunt. All three of Clemens's at-bats came with Spike Owen on first with fewer than two outs. It was a manager's dream come true, and Clemens blew it.

The game is about sacrifice.

Mookie Wilson, however, got the second pitch down in front of the plate. Knight sprinted for second base. Gedman fielded the ball cleanly, if hurriedly, and threw a bullet to Spike Owen at second base to try to eliminate the lead runner, which is the right play to make if there is any chance. With a runner on second base, the Mets would be one base hit away from winning. My mouth hung open in anticipation. Gedman's throw was beat the runner but was a little high for the 5' 9'' Owen and pulled him off the bag just as Knight slid in head first. Field umpire Jim Evans called Knight safe and Wilson was obviously safe at first. In my mind, the H.M.S. Titanic had struck the iceberg.

Just remembering this event caused me to clutch my chest and grope for the support of Darcy's sock. Remember, I wasn't even watching this play, but was just thinking about it because of Vin Scully's comment.

Marty Barrett jumped up and down in rebellion. Knight, that perennial sissy, clapped his hands. McNamara ran out of the dugout to argue, but it was no use; the Red Sox could not win now. The Mets had runners on first and second base with no outs. It was over. The federation had been defeated. Shea Stadium erupted as the death blow had stabbed the Sox in the heart. While everyone on the field was arguing, multiple angle replays confirmed Knight was safe, perhaps by an inch, in what was an inexcusable play by the Sox defense. Gedman has to make that throw on target. But he didn't and only a miracle could save the Sox now.

The play reminded me of how the Reds stole Game Three of the 1975 World Series from the Sox with an Ed Armbrister sacrifice bunt in the 10^th inning followed by a nifty interference with Carlton Fisk causing a wild throw into center field as Fisk tried to throw out Cesar Geronimo at second. The names had changed, but the facts were the same. The Reds had won that game two batters later with a Joe Morgan bases loaded fly ball over Fred Lynn's head, and the Mets would probably win this one. Hope had been all but abandoned. Gedman had grievously erred in what was the second worst possible scenario. Note: a mere one inning later I would witness the single worst scenario.

As my History teacher used to say, “If you don't know History then you are forever a child.” Though I thought he'd been a homework sadist, it looked like he was right. For a game with so many plays and unlimited possibilities, it is noteworthy that two World Series games, nine years apart, hinged on an identical throw by a Red Sox catcher following a sacrifice bunt. Now, to examine the core of Scully's comment.

Presumably to bunt, Howard Johnson had come to the plate as a pinch hitter for Kevin Elster. His job was to advance Ray Knight to third base so a fly ball out would score him. Johnson, in fact, tried to bunt the first pitch, but he completely missed the ball for strike one. Inexplicably, that was Johnson's last bunt attempt. He swung away on the next pitch and hit a foul ball behind first base for strike two. Then he started to swing at a pitch out of the strike zone, checked his swing, but just nicked it with the end of his bat. Gedman caught the foul tip for the first out of the inning, a gigantic out, that crushed the Mets' advantage and made me think, at the time, that there was still a chance.

But, as Scully asked an inning later, why had Johnson been allowed to swing? Why not just attempt to bunt until you have two strikes (Bunting a ball foul with two strikes is considered a strike out, as Clemens demonstrated in the 2^nd inning. This is because a good bunter could otherwise foul off pitches indefinitely and wear a pitcher down.) A Major league coach simply can not take this type of risk in front of 55,000 fans who screamed for a sacrifice bunt. For the uninitiated, this is what every Mets fan on earth thought should have happened:

Howard Johnson should have concentrated harder on laying the first pitch down for a bunt instead of cheating toward first base as though he were trying to get a single. There was no need to bunt for a single with runners on first and second and no outs in the bottom of the ninth inning. The 1975 Mets had known that once a runner gets on third base with fewer than two outs, all you need is a hit or a sacrifice fly to score the run and win the game, just like game three in 1975. Remember, since the game was tied, the Mets didn't need two runs to win the game. They only need one run and Johnson's job was to get that man, Ray Knight, on third base with fewer than two outs. The game could essentially be won with a good bunt. That is why it is called a 'sacrifice.' Just lay the ball in a place where Knight won't get thrown out at third. Even with one strike Johnson still needed to bunt, but for some reason Mets coach Davey Johnson decided Ho Jo was either going to push the ball on the ground to the right side of the field, which would move Knight to third, or else get a hit, which might score Knight. But as every coach knows, this strategy had two drawbacks: Johnson might also hit into a double play, or he might strike out. No matter what, it wasn't a good strategy to let him swing. If you have men on first and second base with no outs, your batter is not especially strong (.000 BA in the Series, .245 in the regular season for Ho Jo), and all you need to score is one run to win the game, then do exactly what you did with a man on first base and no outs: sacrifice bunt the man on second to third. Avoid the double play, avoid the strikeout, and avoid the infield fly ball. The safest out to make is a bunt that moves the runners up. The worst outcome will be that the bunt is not placed in a good spot and Knight will get thrown out at third. But, unlike Buckner, Ray Knight actually had some speed and could be counted on to reach third before the ball. And the Sox had just screwed up the last attempt to get the lead runner out so there was no reason to believe they would get him out this time. Mets fans everywhere were probably saying, “Bunt the ball to Buckner. He'll probably have a cardiac arrest just fielding it.”

Why am I dwelling on this point? Oh, no reason. It was just the difference between the Mets winning in the bottom of the ninth and thus saving me a lifetime of torment because of what happened in the tenth inning. But why should that make any difference to anyone? Why should anyone care about my torment? I'm the court jester, after all, and my role is to be torments. Sure. Well, let this court jester say this: The best offensive rule in baseball “Make the defense work to get you out.” A sacrifice bunt would make the defense work. This scenario obviously crossed Davey Johnson's mind because Mookie Wilson had just and Howard Johnson had attempted to bunt on the first pitch. To take off the bunt sign and allow Howard Johnson to swing away was insane. It invalidated the original decision. The Mets could win the game without getting a hit. A sacrifice bunt and then a sacrifice fly to the outfield, two outs, and they still win the game. That is the beauty of baseball, but Davey Johnson had just gambled against the odds and lost. There was one out and Lee Mazilli was coming to the plate.

Now, in the middle of the tenth inning, as the Sox took their places on the field with a two run lead, Vin Scully showed he could get as emotional about the game as any fan. This was not necessarily a good thing.

Announcers, good announcers, do not second-guess managers during their broadcast. They do not do this because it is a slippery slope. One hypothetical outcome just leads to another hypothetical result. Like Cristo had said, If my aunt was a man then she'd be my uncle. If you are behind the microphone at Game Six of the World Series it is because you understand the fine line between second-guessing and insightful commentary. Any fool can say, “Now that was a stupid move.” Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola walked this fine line for the whole series by making comments like, “If the Mets fail to score here this will be the longest of winters for Manager Davey Johnson. Opting to let Ho Jo swing away with no outs may prove to be the career gamble that didn't pay off.” This comment does not delve any deeper into the issue than the emotion, the drama, the possible loss and the possible regret of the decision. It is a comment that allows the announcer to remain a nonpartisan observer to a most partisan game and to talk non-stop for the full length of a highly charged event without being despised by the end of it.

Scully's words, “If Howard Johnson is good enough to swing, how come he wasn't...” is the beginning of the kind of comment that would've had Mets fans throwing flaming bottles of vodka into the broadcast booth had Schiraldi and the Sox not imploded in the bottom of the tenth. Though it is still a nonpartisan statement, it scratches a little too deeply into the event. It questions the strategy from a professional level and, as Scully knew, the move was a bonehead one. Something about the Johnson at-bat stuck with Scully through the remainder of the ninth inning and through the drama of the top of the tenth inning. An ugly inconsistency had occurred and Scully couldn't contain himself. Naturally, I understood his urge to ask these questions.

Though I can't be certain, I am sure Scully's comment concluded with “...swinging away on the first pitch?” Indeed, if Howard Johnson could be trusted to move Knight to third by swinging away with less that two outs then why did he attempt to bunt what is usually the best pitch of an at bat, the first strike? Why take the bat out his hands for only one pitch? If he is good enough to swing away, which he proved he wasn't, then let him swing away the whole at bat. But if he isn't good enough to swing away, which is what his first bunt attempt proved, then why did he swing away after he missed?

Putting a bunt down is far easier than hitting a ball, so why was Johnson trying to do the harder of the two? To Scully, this made no sense, and he had to talk. But to publicly broadcast such a comment after the Red Sox had just scored two runs and were 99% guaranteed to win the game and the series, was to rub the mistake in the noses of millions of Mets fans. Scully understood this so he made the comment after he thought the commercial break had started. But I heard it and knew exactly what he was talking about. If the miracle of the bottom of the tenth inning had not taken place, had the Sox Curse not surfaced in Shea Stadium to wipe away Bruce Hurst's Series MVP award, then Scully's question would have haunted Mets fans instead of taunting Sox fans.

The main reason Mets fans would have been up all night five years later asking this question is because immediately following Johnson's foul tip strike out, Lee Mazilli hit a fly ball to the left field warning track that would have scored Knight from third and won the game for the Mets, but in this case didn't even move Knight to third. Now, maybe Mazilli doesn't hit a fly ball to left. Maybe he strikes out. Maybe he hits a three-run home run. Who knows? All he has to do is get the ball in play and Knight will probably score--as long as Knight is on third base. A slow ground ball will score him. A medium fly ball to the outfield usually scores a fast runner from third. A base hit will score him. Mazilli's fly ball would have unquestionably scored Knight. That is why a sacrifice bunt is the right strategy for Johnson. It allows two more batters to score the winning run with a long out or a hit or even a passed ball. The most important goal is to get the man on third base with fewer than two outs. Can I stress this any more? The Mets failed to do that because Davey Johnson ignored strategy. Mazilli flied out to left and then Lenny Dykstra ended the inning with a pop fly to left. It all hinged on Johnson's at-bat. The game remained tied but every Met fan knew they had just blown an opportunity for which there is no excuse. The Red Sox promptly scored two runs in the top of the inning setting the stage for McNamara to baffle the Gods with the mistakes I now spent my 7 or 8 waking hours trying to fix.

After I had analyzed Scully's comment, I felt I wasn't alone. Even if it only took Scully ten minutes to get it out of his system--while I had spent 7 to 18 hours a day for the past 5 years trying to untangle the nest of snakes known as the bottom of the 10^th inning--I was not alone. Scully's question validated my own quest and allowed me to return to the more complex riddle I needed to solve. Johnson had only bungled one at-bat, while I had hundreds, possible millions, of scenarios to analyze before the Red Sox could win.

Obviously, I couldn't get out of the living room until past two, which was about average. In the bottom of the 10^th inning, Schiraldi still threw too good a pitch to Knight when there was no need to. Just throw a ball in the dirt! Throw a junky backdoor slider around the ankles. Let him sweat a little. Knight was protecting the plate like the Crowned Jewels. He would have swung a pitch thrown to second base. But Schiraldi's pitch was too meaty and Knight got the hit that drove in Carter and set the stage for Wilson to do all that damage without even getting good wood on the ball. Curse it! What would it take to end the cycle?

You have to be stronger, Oggy. You can't change the game without sacrifice. Howard Johnson knows about sacrifice.

As Vin Scully knew, too much second-guessing could encourage the worst company.

What more can I give, Bullwhip? It's been over five years! Almost everyone is gone. The whole outfield is gone. Rice is gone. Evans is gone. Henderson is gone. Armas is gone. The only players left are Boggs, Greenwell and Clemens. Everyone else is gone. Dewey? Where are you? Dewey, I used to see a game for five dollars and buy a hot dog for a buck. Now tickets are double that and Fenway doesn't sell vegetarian Hot Dogs. Marty, I'm almost an old man. Stanley, I haven't thrown a pitch in three years. Buckner, I can't bend over to tie my shoes. Gedman, I've got bruises that won't go away and wrinkles on my flesh. Schiraldi, how much more can I give?

You tell me, Oggy.

For Breakfast, I ate the only edible food in the house: an overripe banana. My father had survived on a single banana in the morning since 1980. Where he ate after that was anybody’s guess. He was like a dog let out to scavenge food in the streets. I hunted for something more to eat but only found cans of Okra and stale wheat biscuits. After the banana, I gathered all the gear for a December bike ride: gloves. jacket, hat, scarf. Just because it was clear in town was no guarantee the coast would be kind. Winter wind off the ocean could chill the warmest California memory.

After deleting Cristo's message, I filled a water bottle from the kitchen sink, hit the electric remote control garage door button and walked into the chilly afternoon. The sun would be at my back for most of the ride, so I stuck my sunglasses in my pocket. I wheeled my speedy road bicycle from the garage and checked the tire pressure. Then I tied my hat on, tugged my gloves on tight and coasted down the driveway standing with my left foot on the left peddle. When I gained enough speed I slowly slung my right leg over the bike, like I was mounting a horse, and pedaled a few times in a circle. If anything was going to go wrong with the bike it would go wrong as soon as I started, so I stalled on Elwyn Avenue where it was still convenient to go back to the basement for a tool.

The big white dogs across the street looked intently in my direction but didn't bark. They were good dogs, unlike Guiness who prowled the area beneath my bedroom window from 1980 until it died in 1984. My bike and my body were working as good as I could expect, so I turned east on Elwyn Avenue and let the bike do the work.

You love to bicycle, don't you, Oggy? Yoy've sung so many songs about your bike. You'll go away on your bike one day, but you'll return with new songs for the fire, won't you? That was your promise. Where are you going today, Oggy?

“You know.”

This is what happens when I take too much time with Game Six. The Wraiths get bored and come out to bug me, spoiling a perfectly good bike ride. At least I didn't have a date with a q-tip.

Break Island? Fort Stark?

“Yes.”

Remember that time you got pulled over by the police on Break Island? I respect that song. Could you sing it one more time, Oggy?

“Can I just bike, Bullwhip? You're blocking my view.”

What were you listening to? Was it 'Born to Run' by Bruce Springsteen?

“It was “No Sleep 'till Brooklyn” by the Beastie Boys.”

Don't give me any crap about my music choice. It you were 15 years old in 1986, you would have listened to the Beastie Boys too.

Did you think a girl would have sex with you if you played loud music and drove fast over the granit causeway? Did you think Darcy would see you pass by? Did you think you were going to find her running from a killer on the road and that you would save her and she would have sex with you?

“Leave me alone. This isn't your time, Bullwhip. Darcy loved me. She just didn't get a chance to see the real me because of McNamara. He broke my shine box!”

But why did they leave Schiraldi in? Why didn't McNamara pinch hit Baylor? He was a step away from hitting and then the Sox would have won. Why didn't...

I pedaled hard down Elwyn Avenue, leaving the Wraith in the cloud of ghosts near Gentle Gena's old house. Sometimes they let me go just to see what kind of trouble I get into. This was one of those times. I turned north on South Street near Clough Field, opting to ignore the short cut through the Bone Harbor School parking lot because recess looked to be swinging hard on the playground. Instead, I went the way a car had to, up South Street and past the South Street Market, where they would not ignore penny candy theft.

The cold air stung my eyes, but it wasn't painful enough to keep the Timewraiths in the shadows. They caught up to me near JoJo's Locke's old brown house.

Remember going to Whaleswood Beach with your good friend Stretch? What ever happened to him? Tell the story about the football game over at Kodiak's house. I respect that story. Tell the story of what you did. History doesn't teach itself. Didn't Darcy give you something special that day? Didn't she tell you she loved you?